


Head in a Basket

by Daastan_Go



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Brothers, Drama, F/M, Family, Morbid, Other, Romance, Tragedy, Uchiha Massacre, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28677366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daastan_Go/pseuds/Daastan_Go
Summary: Against Leaf's tides, there's always one more foe to best and one more head to bury!
Relationships: Haruno Sakura & Hatake Kakashi, Haruno Sakura & Uchiha Sasuke, Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke, Karin & Uchiha Sasuke, Orochimaru & Uchiha Sasuke, Team Hebi | Team Taka & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Obito & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto
Kudos: 1





	Head in a Basket

# # # # # #

Past, a leech: it, with the slowest haste, stuck to the body and fed on man till it grew grotesque and bloated. _Burn them off_ , Orochimaru said to him once whilst they trudged through a marsh. Ravening and thin, several of them attached themselves to his arm; with his sword, he pried them off. It did not hurt as much as it should have. The places where their mouths had been left ring-like teeth marks that remained and bled.

One night—just like that—he made peace with an idea that the past he did not need would only drag him down. There was no use carrying around the weight, of bonds, that offered little to build a new future. He had a chance to end Naruto's life, but he chose to spare it on a whim that he should not let his brother win—that he ought not to let him defeat his spirit, an instrument that he could call his own.

. . . Itachi was dead . . . gone off to a sublime plane, about which a nacreous glow shimmered. At least, this was what he hoped, but Itachi left him to be bedevilled by ghosts that cherished vengeance and solitude that ought to haunt him . . . forever; his entire clan met its end whilst night still withered and moon whispered, and he was left _all_ alone and without an ink of blood to craft his destiny in their name.

This was the leech he never pried off; gorged with his spirit, dripping, it, into something else entirely, transmuted. Memories clung to him day in day out, and he let them for they provided a reassurance for his designs, a shelter from silence without an ending: he would get what he wanted and he would get it by force if he had to!

Life was short; for a man, it was shorter still. With a whimper it began and in a blur it consummated; and living into memories was the last blessedness man dreamt of. Either they left him aggrieved that he accumulated many regrets to carry upon his back as a godly burden, or he found contentment that he had left it all behind—that the journey was _finally_ over.

How should he pen his name? Which way his ink ought to flow? The Uchiha name was forged in blood—white against red, their mark. That night, bodies fell and streets ran red to the clear streams. Scattered they lay about in shadows—a stench that matured into a new memory for his dreams.

All men bled and rotted away . . . not like this— _never like this!_ Life was but one long scroll full of memory that existed for the present; and, if it was punctuated by such violent strokes, it turned ugly, another mouth to feed; so he chose and kept the memories he needed and discarded the ones he did not. They did not pull him down; they lived within, lurched about in corners like drunkards at night.

When he was confronted by Naruto's idealism, he shunned it. The boy was a fool! He did not know how the world lived; it was brutal, unfair, unkind . . . too _real_. Idealism was best left for good dreams on rainy nights. They made poor anchors for eyes waking, which dreamt without vision.

Standing over Karin's crumpled body now, he was faced with another trouble, another memory. It was a matter of usefulness now: if she was useful, he would keep her; if she chose to fight, he would cut her down. Was she not here for this purpose? She carried the stench of Leaf's wind, a long summer’s ripe odour. He could smell it off her the way he could smell an unwashed harlot in the _Pleasure Quarters_ , soaked in the smell of men driven by lust and gluttony.

He did not need her reassurances. He could tell that the kunai she carried in her trembling fist was coated with poison; but her lying tongue felt more poisonous to his ears. She must have thought him to be a fool. How he loathed their lies, their _Wills_. . . _of Fire_. 

_I am not their chattel—a puppet to their theatre!_ He remembered the Kabuki actor's words; he spoke of _Revolution_ , pouring as passion from his breast. _Ah—Revolution! Music in the songs—fires in the hearts!_ Leaf was bereft of its radiance!

Her green as grass eyes wandered to the right, like a clumsy child's, to gaze at the blood spurting out from the grave wound he had inflicted upon the red-haired girl. She lay there, soaking the dirt garmented stones, dripping red—a coarse mélange. She was dying, and he did not need his Sharingan to see the truth. Her life was too short; she had moments left to live.

She spoke some more and appeared like this volatile bastard of the most foul ingredients she carried in her heart from Leaf. The village's stench travelled far and wide. It never let him breathe, be free. It never let him revolt against the power she guarded now— _here!_

A fool! The veil lifted, and he received a revelation from the firmament above. Shedding his snake skin, he sprouted wings, metaphors of punishment, that would allow him to soar high and climb the tallest cliffs to reach Kami in the sky—a new and deadly metamorphosis in his quest. He would fell them in great numbers and their streets would run blood for days. Their songs would bring his heart the greatest joys!

She moved past him, her motions slow and clumsy as if she was the same irksome girl who had tried her best to stop him in the night, with confessions of love undying. Her boldness still affected him. What would she know of family when she was eager to cast them away? And still . . . and still her words were the same: confessions of loyalty, betrayal of family.

He watched as her inky imitation traversed the stones, and he felt a weight lift from him; and, silently, his spirit was reborn into a hawk; clear, his eyes; ready, his talons. This prey would not leave here—not with its head! Then his hand turned into a claw, and a familiar chakra emerged as Raiton: a quick design for her demise.

Karin croaked out something, but she was too slow and too late to know. It happened in slow motion for him: she turned to look upon his visage, much different from that which she assumed to be familiar as a child which naturally bore naiveté, and the tip of the blade-like hand struck the side of her neck and went clean through, and she started to fall back; her neck was a rusty old pipe that had broken in two to let out a sudden quick gush; red exploded out, and her expression changed slowly from shock to pain, and then to something else, as she realised that her jugular-vein had been cut through so savagely.

He was not obliged to repeat the stroke again, for her neck was nearly sundered. It remained attached to her body with few ugly seams of skin, tissue, ruptured veins. She was like an old puppet a puppeteer had thrown against the wall in exasperation that it did not turn and move the way he wished.

He did not even give a chance for a scream to swell in her throat, and she went down without a sound and thudded to the bridge’s remains that crumbled stone by stone. Fresh red spread out in all directions and shone in the sun's grey-kissed light. The chirping of birds upon his hand dissipated into the iron-grip of the hawk's talons. He was not smiling. It had to be done—Leaf had to be taught a lesson that Taka and Akatsuki meant business!

He raised his eyes and met the shocked expression in the red-eye his mentor had once received as a great gift. Kakashi would remember this in great detail for years to come—Sharingan never let anyone forget . . . never . . . he was moments too late to save her life. Kakashi had not expected him to be so unforgiving of her attempt on his life. It was only fair. He paid her back here and now. He never liked to delay things for another time.

A cloud rose up into the air, and a tear in the space’s fabric appeared beside him. Out came the two-faced whelp, who was fond of masks, and the plant-monstrosity was not far behind. He grabbed Karin and muttered something about _necessities,_ and then the scene of carnage spun round and round before his eyes, and everything vanished. He did not even see the first drop of rain fall down to dilute his artistry.

A memory was gone, and his spirit was lighter . . .

# # # # # #

**The End**

**Canon-Manga Info** : Sasuke was aware that Sakura had come to kill him, which is why he tested her and moved behind her to strike. He didn't strike at her on a whim. What's odd is that Sasuke perfectly dodged Mei's first Yōton attack with hilarious ease when it was spewed at him whilst his back was turned to her: he blocked the second one with the Ribcage Susanoo; she couldn't even throw him into the damned corridor without Chōjūrō's sword strike!

And she was still miserably failing as Sasuke's chakra (from the Viz-translation) was just "beginning to weaken (according to Karin)" when she used Futton in the corridor. So, basically, she shot (the first) Yōton at his back; but his basic Ninja-Sensing was so remarkable that he easily detected it despite the fact that he was exhausted from having fought Raikage (costing him his arm), Shī, and Darui; and bracing the combined attack from Gaara, Darui, Kankurō, and Temari. He shrugged off all that as if it was nothing, buried them all under the debris, and went to the meeting-hall where Mei decided to pick a fight.

Whilst, here, he magically didn't see Kakashi coming from the side to rescue Sakura (Kakashi's very slow compared to Sasuke: the latter dodged point-blank clay-based bombs' [C1, C2, etc.] shock-waves, for Lord's sake!) when, scientifically, peripheral-vision detects movement with greater accuracy, and he had been healed a bit by Karin, as well? Kakashi caught him off-guard twice and miserably and utterly failed to bring Sasuke down onto his knees both times (Sasuke blocked both of his attacks perfectly and landed on his feet without an issue, even though he was exhausted!). So Sasuke can easily anticipate, detect, and dodge attacks from the back, attacks he can't even see, but he couldn't detect the movements in his field of vision—not once, but twice? That makes little sense! (He matched Naruto’s attack-speed after the rescue with pin-point accuracy, albeit he could barely see as his eyes were failing him! By God!) It's a narrative paradox.

That, folks, is what we call _Deus Ex Machina_ , a device that’s seldom utilised properly in post-modern narratives. It's that absurd concept deliberately utilised by the author that makes no sense whatsoever within the canon-logic; but, somehow, it works and we're supposed to accept it. (I respect Kishimoto as a writer in regard to some aspects, but he _truthfully_ didn't do this part justice.)


End file.
